


Don't cry for me Argentina

by ironcy



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt, M/M, References to Depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:07:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24219397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironcy/pseuds/ironcy
Summary: There's always happier days to remember. Like the rainy day in Argentina, Martín mused, like the day when he wasn't as incomplete as he was now.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 2
Kudos: 26





	Don't cry for me Argentina

**Author's Note:**

> Finally, I dare post some if my work on this ship - which I'm currently obsessing over. I appreciate any criticism or whatever you've got to say and I do hope somebody finds it enjoyable to read - even if it'll include heavy angst.  
> I know it's all over the place, my head is all over the place, I'm in the middle of my final exams and I'm just writing some small comfort or angst stories, just short stuff.  
> Not too much plot, just feelings.

There are always happier days to remember 

"Alberto Prebisch."  
Every word Andrés spoke seemed to have a melodic timbre to it, Martín mused, although he had no idea what the other was talking about.  
"Who?" He asked, quickening his pace. It was raining, not pouring, but the steady drops of water soaked through his shoes and his leather jacket; neither of them had brought an umbrella, so he didn't fancy staying outside any longer than he had to.  
"Martín, dear, are you sure you were born here?" Andrés dry laugh drowned in the cascade of giggling as they passed a nearby tourist group who didn't seem to mind the rain - they were also wearing transparent pieces of plastic and holding umbrellas, following a tall Argentinian guide whose accent they surely couldn't understand.  
Tourist raincoats, Martín reckoned. The ones you could buy at the corner of a street or those touristy locations he liked to avoid. The raincoats you bought for a few hundred pesos when you'd been surprised by the sudden downpour. 

Andrés pointed towards the Obelisk, rolling his eyes at Martín and stopping in his tracks to admire the giant chunk of white stone - Martín really didn't know why it was such an attractive location.  
"It's not far off, Andrés, and my shoes are fucking soaked," he said, clearing his throat.  
"The architect. Alberto Prebisch."  
To his dismay, Andrés seemed to know quite a fair share more about Buenos Aires than Martín himself. During their visit in the Columbus theater he'd provided details Martín had never heard of, admiring the golden arches and small carved details, the red, velvety carpets and the high ceilings with stained glass windows. They hadn't stayed for a play, but Andrés had seemed perfectly content, marvelling at the building and inside of the theater.  
"Did you know," Andrés continued, ignoring Martín's request to hurry the fuck along, "that your accent's changed since we've arrived? Do you actually make a point to talk Castellan when we're in Europe?"  
He sounded almost fond, like he cherished the idea Martín made an effort to speak without the thick incomprehensible accent, making Martín's heart skip a beat and his chest warm in spite of the cold water.  
"Obviously. I want you to understand me, idiot."  
At this, Andrés tutted disapprovingly. "You also swear more."  
Finally, finally he turned from the tell building and hurried across the street, Martín following quickly to catch up, almost as if Andrés had taken the lead in a city he'd never been to. 

It burned. The alcohol burned when he swallowed with effort, feeling it slosh up his throat before he managed to choke it down. "Jesus fucking Christ," Martín leaned against the brick wall of his one-room apartment, bringing the long-necked bottle to his lips to take a sip.  
It felt like acid, he could feel it crawling back up his throat and coughed, the heartburn nearly making him gag.  
"Jesus Christ," he repeated, closing his eyes.

They'd been in a café, finally having escaped the rain.  
Martín peeled off the leather jacket, his shirt underneath was damp and stuck to his skin uncomfortably, aware Andrés was gazing at him with his eyes. The color of watered down coffee. Martín had never met anybody with such an intense stare, a stare that made him want to curl up in his seat, a stare that seemed to reprimand him for every wrongdoing but that shone when he pleased Andrés.  
He longed for that glow, he longed to please Andrés more than anything else, like a needy puppy ready to please his owner. Every approving gaze he latched onto like a drowning man would a rope or a saving hand, but he was perfectly content with the occasional, rare kind words. The occasional 'darling' or 'dear' that he cherished and savoured for days to come. 

Oh, he could've gone on like that forever. Martín let the bottle go and it toppled over, but it was empty and he was sitting, so it didn't shatter or spill. He could've held on to those little affections forever. 

Like when Andrés reached out in the café and touched the sleeve of Martín's shirt, almost sounding worried. "You're drenched, you've got to change, you mustn't catch a cold," he said and Martín chuckled.  
"What, you want me to change here?" He raised his eyebrows, a playful smile on his lips.  
"That'd be quite a show, wouldn't it?" He laughed and Martín knew, if heaven existed, it would be filled with Andrés' sweet laughter. How he threw his head back, his eyes closed, chuckling. 

He opened his mouth and let bitter alcohol spill down his bare chest, he coughed and retched, a string of bile remaining on his lips. Martín opened his eyes. The alcohol didn't make him forget, as much as he wanted to. It made him drowsy, it made him nauseous, but it didn't let him forget that he'd never see Andrés' sweet smile again. Or feel his loving touches that had been rare and never reserved for him, but that were his favorite memories.  
Because some insignificant police officer had taken him. Somebody had ripped Andrés from his life and left a void in his heart. Andrés never would have been able to give him what he wanted, to return his endless devotion. But Martín had been content. He'd been content with the small bread crumbs left for him.  
Now, he couldn't be ever again.


End file.
